Beautiful & Damned: A Vintage Horror Story
by Somber-and-Resplendent
Summary: A horror story about Silent Film Star, Marie Prevost.


**Note: This is dedicated to Midwich Cuckoo** **for stating how she'd like to see a Marie Prevost Story.**

 _Beautiful & Damned: A Vintage Horror Story_

* * *

 _Year 1921_

Marie was a pure hearted woman; she had learned to be so in her upbringing. She'd crinkle her nose and cross her legs when curtsying to her mother's friends, and she'd bow her head and say grace before taking a bite of dinner. In the morning, she'd brush her golden curls and play with the neighborhood dogs before skipping off to school, often telling the mutts the secrets of her father's affairs in which she heard through the thin walls of the house. In the evening, she'd take to her studies and often pile a couple of history books upon her bed and use it as a pillow, thinking that she could soak up the lessons easier that way. And in the night, she'd listen attentively to the wild and fantastic stories her grandfather would spill from his heart as he lulled her mind to sleep.

"She's going to be a star," her mother would boast to her friends on Friday nights. They never failed to gather at each other's houses, sneaking in with them a couple of bottles to liven up the gossip; somehow the prohibition movement failed to bring the order and peace it had strived for. (Drunken, gossiping wives will always exist.)

"I wish I could say the same about my little Tillie," one of the drunken women would say, "But the child is a spoiled brat—wears me pink!"

"Marie would never act so brash," her mother praised with a wide smile.

"Well, don't you just have a _golden child_ ," the women respond, crossing their arms and rolling their eyes. Marie was an envied little girl as well, and the green monster that sought her out would only darken in color and double in size as she grew older.

"Oh, Marie!" the reporters would shout, surrounding her with their cameras and their dull suits. "Smile for us, Marie!"

And she would; she was an obedient young lady.

However, one summer day as she was heading back to her lavish room at the Cecil Hotel, a horde of reporters followed and awkwardly shuffled down the narrow halls.

"Isn't it about high time you all go back to where you came from?" Marie scolded the pack with a beautiful yet dainty pout upon her face, but the crowd was unmoved and they pleaded with the beautiful star.

"Just one interview," one man begged, "It'll make the front covers." Though Marie was astounded with their persistence, she couldn't ignore the chance of appearing in _The Flapper_ magazine; and so she led them inside where Maxie, her little dachshund, captivated everyone with his elongated body and short, stubby legs.

The reporters clustered around him and doted over the little beast.

"Can we get a picture of you and the dog?" asked one of the reporters, setting up his camera. Marie obliged, situated herself upon the floor, and dangled her sheer scarf before Maxie's big, bulging eyes. The reporters were awestruck as the beautiful actress gently laughed and playfully swayed the dainty material before Maxie. He jumped about his hind legs and snarled at the scarf as if it was his foe, but he lost his balance and doubled over. And the reporters unanimously sighed in awe. The two were perfect: Marie and her little dachshund.

* * *

Two young boys chased each other up and down the narrow halls of the Cecil Hotel. The thicker one, Henry, with his blazing red hair and freckled face, let out a nauseating laugh as he kicked the little toy boat his Aunt Mae had bought him last Christmas. He never appreciated the woodwork toy, found it to be dull and uninteresting; however, the other young boy, James, a dark haired, soft spoken child, adored the little boat. He had always dreamed of being a captain, sailing the Atlantic and discovering lost worlds. And though the boat belonged to Henry, James often took the wooden toy, hid in a corner, and pretended that it was the ship of dreams herself: Titanic.

"You bet your life I wouldn't let it sink," James would declare with an upraised fist, recalling the eerie story he had heard on the radio upon that tragic day: _British ocean liner, Titanic, sinks into the North Atlantic._

"Oh, go chase yourself," Henry would retort, pointing a fat finger at James, "You can't even tie your laces!"

The two boys seldom got along, leaving many to question why the two bothered to be in each other's presence. Perhaps it was because James looked up to Henry and admired his upstage attitude and outspoken tongue; the boy certainly had a mind of his own. He'd argue with his teachers and denounce the progressive movement in education, which was what many were calling it at the time—said it was supposed to be a student-driven classroom rather than a domineering teacher drilling monotone lectures into young, energetic minds.

Moreover, especially when flustered, Henry would steal his classmate's marbles and gobble them down as if they were a special treat to be enjoyed after a late dinner. Later, usually resulting in the next school day, he'd return the marbles to his victims and claim that they had come out of his bum, which often summoned repulsed shrieks from his victims following that nauseating laugh of his.

Either way, James admired Henry, though the feeling was not mutual. Henry looked down upon James, scoffed at the mention of his name, and always made an excuse as to not returning James' lead soldiers to him whenever he borrowed them. But if there was one thing that the two boys could agree upon, it was the beautiful, almost enchanting, woman that lived on the thirty-third floor, Marie Prevost.

"She's a movie star," Henry's mother, Betty, would say, flipping through the pages of _The Flapper_ magazine which featured Ms. Prevost on the cover. "The girl has it made. Every woman wants to look like her and every man wants to bed her. Sounds like the life to me."

Betty was a stern woman. It was impossible to bring a smile about her stark featured face, and as a means of cheering herself up due to her gloomy marriage, she'd regularly carry out many affairs with doting lovers behind the back of Henry's father, Arthur.

"Oh, he's such a wet blanket," Betty would say to her friends, "I don't know why I keep him." Arthur never paid much attention to her, never questioned why his wife was often drunk or missing for days on end. He never probed her with questions about her drunk-driving habits or speeding tickets. In fact, he never did anything at all.

And as the two boys raced up and down the halls, an idea popped into Henry's head, and he paused. Panting, he dug his fingers into his school bag and retrieved his mother's magazine.

"Boy, is she a dish!" he exclaimed, gazing down at Ms. Prevost's picture. She was a beautiful woman; bleach blond finger waves, doe-like eyes, and small pouty lips. She was the embodiment of the flapper. And she only lived two floors above Henry and James.

"What ya got there?" James asked, after catching up to his large friend, the boat snug tightly in his little arms.

"It's my girl," said Henry with a wide smile, fat cheeks growing red. "Momma says she lives upstairs, and I'm going to see her."

"You can't see her," said James with pouted lips.

"And why not?" retorted Henry, his temper rising with the blush on his cheeks.

"Because she doesn't like you." James arrogantly shut his eyes, nodded his head at Henry as if he had just won a battle, and tightened his hold upon the wooden boat. However, had he not have shut his eyes, he'd have seen Henry's two large hands coming towards him. And with a loud thud, James fell to the ground.

"You're just jealous 'cause Ms. Prevost likes me better than you—you scrawny twig!" Henry shouted before racing (as fast as his fat self could) to the elevator. James remained upon the floor, flabbergasted. But he soon gathered his senses and chased after his friend, beating him to elevator yet submitting to him when he asked to be let inside.

"Do you think she'll talk to us?" asked James as the elevator rose to the thirty-third floor. But Henry didn't reply, mainly because he hadn't heard the question primarily, for his mind was cluttered with images of Ms. Prevost in her fascinating poses spread across the magazine. Yet when the two boys found themselves in front of her room (after knocking upon all the other doors on the thirty-third floor), Henry felt sick and surrendered to his nerves whereas James got bold and pounded upon the door.

They stood in silence as they waited for a response or no response. Either way, the wooden boat in James' hands started to grow heavy and Henry felt the need to dash to the nearest can and hurl up his fears. And when the door cracked open, allowing a scent of flowery perfume to hit the two boys and entice their young senses, a loud and piercing bark pounded against their ears and they both instantly cringed.

"Oh dear, Maxie," said a soft, feminine voice, "It appears we have two, young gentleman at our door."

She was even more beautiful than her pictures: her cheeks were fuller, her eyes were brighter, and her innocent giggling as her little dachshund, Maxie, licked at her feet, tied her image together with a red bow. Betty would have called her a goddess and Arthur would have shrugged and looked the other way, but Henry and James gawked at her, and soon the boat that had once been deemed the ship of dreams fell from James' trembling hands.

Maxie, alert as he was, instantly growled at the falling ship and dared to attack it by shimmying his long, awkward body through the crack of the door and sinking his teeth into the wooden toy. At that moment, James snapped out of his musing and attempted to wrestle with the ferocious beast, earning a few bloodied scratches and bite marks in the process.

"Maxie!" Ms. Prevost scolded, stomping a delicate foot upon the ground, "Take that out of your mouth."

"It's alright," said James, "It's not mine." And that was when Henry realized his surroundings and instantly jumped into the conversation, partly because he was jealous that James spoke to _'his girl'_ first.

"My name is Henry," he boldly introduced himself, shoving a pudgy hand in Ms. Prevost's powdered face.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, taking his hand and gently shaking it, "Nice to meet you, Henry." Then turning to James, who still hadn't managed to fight off the ferocious dachshund, she continued, "And what's your name, young man?"

"James!" he beamed at her as the little dachshund pulled aggressively upon his sleeve. (Mother would have to buy him a new uniform by the end of the day.)

"How can I help you two boys?" asked Marie, presently ignoring Maxie's unwelcoming behavior. But before the two could answer, she spied the magazine in Henry's hands and assumed for them,

"Oh! Would you like an autograph? You can come inside while I grab a pen." She gestured for the two to enter and they obliged with wide smiles, Maxie trailing behind with a bit of ripped fabric caught in between his teeth.

Instantly, the two boys plopped down upon a nearby chair (Henry taking up more of the seat with his large bum) and scanned the room with large eyes; the place was stunning. No wrinkles graced the curtains, the carpet was spotless, the figurines atop the coffee table winked in the light pouring in from the window, and faint music escaped the phonograph sitting in the corner of the room.

And when Marie returned with her favorite fountain pen, Maxie had already pinned the two boys into a corner. Though he was just a pup, his aggression was quite unsettling.

"Maxie!" Marie scolded with her slender hands placed upon her narrow hips, "Leave them be." The dog whimpered, lowered its tail in between its legs, and sat down.

"Here," Marie started, handing Henry the magazine, the wet ink of her autograph winking at him. James, leaning over to take a peak, marveled over her fancy hand and instantly shoved the wooden boat into her arms. She softly chuckled and signed the wooden toy.

"You can come back whenever you'd like," she said with a soft smile, "Maxie and I will be waiting."

The two boys beamed and shyly waved good-bye to the enchanting actress before skipping down the hall, Henry with an autographed magazine and James with an autographed wooden boat. They regularly visited the rising star, had a go with Maxie (he had warmed up to the two brats), and helped her practice her lines for any upcoming short films and movies. And it was through her that the two boys bonded.

And as they grew older, they learned to fight less and in turn dove into deep conversations with another, one sole memory always lingering in the back of their minds: Marie and her little dachshund.

* * *

 _Year 1937_

Time befriends no one, nor does it propose itself as anyone's enemy; it's an endless thing that drifts past souls, leaving them in the dark of their past or luring them into to the brighter days of their future. Nevertheless, time is constant. And Marie learned to cower before it.

Sitting before the window in her kitchen, contemplating whether or not she should eat the roast beef sitting in the fridge, she sighed and took another swig of the bottle. It was the only thing that calmed her nerves and drowned the aching memories that always seemed to present themselves upon waking; although it hadn't always been that way.

"Can you believe it Peggy?" Marie had exclaimed to her younger sister, "They're going to cast me as Gloria in _'The Beautiful and the Damned._ ' I'll be acting side by side with Kenneth Harlan!" Marie could barely contain her excitement as passionate thoughts about she and Mr. Harlan consumed her mind. He was a talented actor, most famous for his romantic roles, and to be his leading lady was more than anything she could have ever dreamed of. And in the fall of 1924, Marie took his name and shared his bed.

But it was all temporary.

"I'm sorry to inform you, Ms. Prevost, but your mother did not survive," said a nurse with a heavy heart and understanding eyes. Though Marie had not been present at the fatal car accident that dark February morning, she could distinctly hear the screeching brakes and smell the burning rubber which placed her mother in the grave that year, 1926; a heavy tombstone expressing such fond memories: _Rest in peace, Hughlina Marion._

Marie felt helpless. She had been a successful actress, wore pearls around her neck and danced at Hollywood parties, yet no amount of money could save her mother from the inevitable. And so she drowned her broken heart in drink and allowed the burning liquid to fill the spaces in between the cracks.

"I don't know why you stay with me," she had said on the eve of her and Kenneth's third anniversary.

"Because you're beautiful," he replied with a smile, the one that made girls swoon and blush and smile. Frustrated, she sighed and ran her fingers through her blond curls,

"This isn't a movie, Ken. Things don't turn out for the better."

Her husband lightly scoffed, "I used to admire you, Marie—used to think you were amazing because you weren't dead like the other women in Hollywood—no—not at all—you were alive and well, facing life even through it scared you. But now I see that you're just a little girl, too afraid to take a risk and too troubled by your past. And it's eating you alive, Marie."

She sharply glanced at him, and had the kitchen knife been any closer to her trembling fingers, she'd have snatched it and threatened the man whom she thought she once loved. However, she did no such thing, for by the end of the night he had left her to toil in the dark hole she had buried herself within.

Maxie, her little dachshund, gently nibbled at Marie's feet from underneath the kitchen table and roused her from the unwanted memories which attacked her daily; her only defense being the intoxicating drink that served as her shield.

"Not now, boy," she muttered, lazily leaning over and running a shaking hand through his dark fur. He had been the only companion for her; she'd walk him in the mornings, take him to the movie sets and dote on him constantly, and play with him in the evenings with her scarves. He was the only soul that remained in her presence, though it had genuinely faded over the years.

"Ow!" she cried, retracting her feet from the old dog. A bit of blood trickled down in between her toes, and with a hearty swat from her, Maxie whimpered and cowered away. He had been rather violent ever since he was a pup, and his belligerence had only grown over the years as much as Marie's depression had. Either that or Marie's carelessness about her own life caused him to suffer, for she rarely remembered to feed the poor thing as she lay drunk in some odd position about her down-rated, dingy apartment.

Maxie continued to whimper and Marie took it as an apology for his brash actions, but the dog was merely hungry.

"Not now," she repeated, red-rimmed eyes gazing outside the window. It was the same ritual she had practiced. She'd awake, wash her senses with drink in a means of disposing the hardened memories of her past, and sit by the window waiting for a phone call from anyone, for her sister, Peggy, had long since stopped phoning after Marie belittled her:

"How can a director offer me a role if you're always calling and hogging up the line?" Marie had scolded Peggy one morning. Her voice was rough, for she hadn't gotten much sleep since her turmoil began, and her fingers dug into the phone receiver, leaving small scratch marks behind.

"I suppose that's all you ever think about, isn't it?" Peggy had retorted before hanging up the line and never picking it up again.

Marie sighed, took another swig, and recalled better times when she was a lively young woman and she and her sister held hour long phone conversations. And then a thought of two little boys came to mind, one with bright red hair and the other cowering away behind a toy boat. She dryly smiled, nudged at Maxie, who lay upon the floor licking at the blood upon her feet, and decided to pen them a letter and invite them to her home in hopes of acquiring happiness once again.

* * *

James had grown into a peculiar young man, who's odd and sudden outbursts of nonsense every now and then confused many. He never thought much about anything; he had an innocent way of looking at things. And though he was a nearing his thirties and dealing with the stress of life, such as owning his own stationery store and providing for his three daughters, Lois, Ruth, and Ida, he still managed to possess the heart of a child. Unfortunately, he also happened to posses the slow and fragile thinking process of own as well.

Henry, however, (still thicker than imaginable), found a job in handy work since the military refused him and his unhealthy, thick body. His parents had divorced, and he often took out the frustration and contempt he held for his mother upon any young woman that dared to enter his life. He consoled himself in brothels, took pleasure in wild orgies, and, unbeknownst to him, violated a few girls under the influence of unfamiliar drugs he hadn't known the name of. Either way, the boy had grown into a rather vile and wicked man, one who shut himself up inside his house and sat on the coach for days contemplating his life choices.

Nevertheless, both men received a letter in the mail with a familiar hand, pink ink shimmering under the light. James' little girls had delivered the letter to him, begged him to tell them the tale of the mysterious woman who penned the note. Perhaps they had believed she was their father's mistress or perhaps they just wanted to hear a story, either way James's wife was displeased. Henry, however, found the letter at the back of his mailbox and lightly grunted as he took the small envelope into his large hands. At first thought, he assumed it was a foul prank; at second thought, he found it as a unique way of advertising. And at third thought, he understood.

"Are you going to meet her?" Lois, James' eldest daughter, had asked. "Does mommy know?"

"Yes," he replied as he stumbled into the car, nervous hands gripping the steering wheel for support. "Run along now, and don't stay up too late."

Such fond memories overwhelmed him that he sat in his car for far too long without realizing that he'd be late if he lingered a moment longer, for visions of her smile and Maxie's snarl enraptured him. And before it dawned upon him that he need start the car, he reached over to the passenger seat and gently patted the wooden boat which occupied it. However, upon arriving at Marie's dingy hotel, he found a clutter of cars outside, snooping people who propped their noses about the commotion, and a familiar, red-haired man: Henry.

The two men glared at one another and surrendered to awkwardness as they both exchanged silent nods. Henry found the situation to be rather odd, wondered if he should sneak a swig from his flask when no one was watching, but thought better of it, for he assumed his interpretation of the childish man before him, James, would only grow more childish when drunk. Perhaps it was James' silly grin or the way he reached for the wooden boat and held it in his arms as he approached the eerie scene.

"Impossible," said one woman as she lifted a handkerchief to her trembling lips, "It is simply impossible."

"It's possible," an officer replied, shaking his head at the torturous thought which consumed him. "I can't say I've seen anything like it before."

"Excuse me," James cut in, "But we've someone to see on the fifth floor."

"You two are together?" asked the officer, gesturing towards James, who held onto his wooden boat, and Henry, who shook his head and denied their relation. "I can't let you in; not until we remove the body."

"Whose body?" asked Henry, raising his eyebrows and adjusting the flask in his pocket as a means of checking its weight, for he wasn't sure how much he had drank, and he wondered if such drink distorted his hearing.

"Marie Prevost—some Hollywood actress—never heard of her. But it sure was an unsettling sight." The officer wiped at his brow as he recalled the scene, however upon lifting his eyes back to the two men, he found them gone.

The two raced down the halls, and though their hearts pounded with uncertainty, the two seemed like children yet again, racing down the Cecil Hotel halls. And as they approached her door with heavy breaths the two men were young yet again, one clutching his wooden boat which fell to ground and broke in two, and the other twiddling his fat thumbs; However, in this moment they neither smiled nor laughed with the young, beautiful actress, but shed silent tears as they gazed upon the battered body which lay sprawled upon the floor in a pool of blood. Jagged, red marks covered her arms which were tangled atop her head, and her legs, or at least what was left of them, were split open and mauled upon. And then there was Maxie with his snout snug deeply within the pink flesh that gushed out from the wounds inflicted upon her mangled body.

 **A/N: If you liked it, tell me what you think! :) Reviews are appreciated.**


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